


A Memory of Luftknarp

by murg



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Abusive Parents, Cecil is Inhuman, M/M, POV Second Person, References to Homophobia, Starvation, Unrequited Love, cecil is a well-meaning creep, cecil likes to fall in love instantly, foregone conclusion, i read too much into minor characters, it's implied at least, references to wwii
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murg/pseuds/murg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything was fine until the strange man from America came.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Memory of Luftknarp

 

The food had started to go bad. Your Mutti told you to go out into the fields and try to harvest more potatoes. You didn't have the heart to tell her all the crops seemed to be rotting on their stalks. Your Opa muttered something about minotaurs and ruined soil as you passed him to leave, but you ignored him. Your Opa gibbered, most days. You felt quite sorry about it.

You lived in a good town. You loved your town. Everything was very basic and calm. You loved the mountains and the rickety post office and the abandoned bus stop (no one ever came, as charming as your little hamlet was--to be fair, it _was_ rather hard to find on a map) and the fields. Your house, oh, you really loved your house. It was your home. Your parents had wanted to run an inn, but, unfortunately, no one ever came here. You had a farm and an inn and three horses. You used to have a dog, but he got hit by a buggy two years ago. You used to have a Vati, but _he_ got hit by a depression six years ago. 

You dug for potatoes and you got mold. This was not surprising, but it _was_ disappointing. You knew you'd have to go to the town market and purchase some canned goods. It wasn't as though you disliked this--for you _loved_ your town--but it was a trek. 

And the market, it held _secrets_. 

„Oh, sweetie," the wife of the mayor had tittered when you arrived. „You don't _want_ to know what's what, today."

Oh, you certainly did, you protested.

„Well, who am _I_ to disappoint?"

Today's secret was this: The abandoned bus stop had been used for the first time in fifty-six years. 

-

He was a man. He was neither tall nor short, neither thin nor fat.He came from across the ocean, from America. He said he hailed from the desert. You had never seen the desert. His accent was jilted and strange, like a colt taking its first steps. He was very unsure of his grammar and he looked at you--yes, _you_ \--with large, hopeful eyes, like a doe. 

You found him seated in your kitchen when you came home with two bags of drooping carrots. He was eating one of the numerous moldy potatoes you'd been meaning to throw out. 

„Hello," he said. 

And he looked up. And you were good, you were calm, you did not scream. You gaped and your skin paled, but you did not scream. Your Mutti always held courtesy as paramount. 

„What is your name?" he said.

You couldn't speak. You could only let your jaw swing open and shut like a faulty door. 

„You're beautiful," he said. 

Your veins ran with ice water. Your heart trembled. His _face!_ Oh, this horrible man's face. You were aware now more than ever of the tiredness of your bones and the sparse meat that hung off of them.

„Is it good to stay here?" he said.

You let out a shuddering sigh. Hospitality. Courtesy. For a horrible man with a horrible face and a jilted accent and a worn, stained backpack. 

He babbled something to himself. It was foreign. It was from America. The man from America that the market's secret whispered of. It was garbled. It sounded like "iwaarooschalfzimmerfotime."

„Yes," you eventually whispered. You weren't not sure if he heard you.

He turned his attention to you again, though, and you wished he hadn't. „Excuse me," he said. „Repeat, please?"

You could only swallow in response. Holding up a hand, a „one moment, please" motion you prayed was to some degree universal, you retreated from the kitchen. 

When you reached your Mutti, in the sitting room, she cuffed you upside the head. Your skull pulsed and your vision went hazy for a few seconds following the act. „Be a good boy!" she berated you. „Be good, be good! Give the man from America a room. I do not care what you say, do it!"

You crept back into the kitchen, sheepish and trepidatious. 

„Hi!" the man said. You tried to avoid looking at his face. He was still eating the rotting potato. You wanted to be sick. „I would like to stay, please."

You nodded.

„Fantastic!" he said. He glanced down at a book in his lap, his horrid face befuddled. „How much money?"

„Fifty for four," you managed to hiss out from between your clenched teeth. If you unclenched them, you knew you'd scream. 

He stared at you blankly, his mind processing this. „Oh," he said. „Okay. For seventeen, no, sorry, for seven?"

„Eighty."

„Eighteen?"

„Eight **y.** "

„Oh!" he said. „Sorry! I speak horribly."

You shrugged. 

„You're very beautiful," he said.

„Would you like to see your room?" you whispered, glancing at the clock. The clock reported the time as six in the morning. The sun had set, outside. Your Opa let out a shrill cry, from the sitting room. You cringed. 

„Yes, please!"

He rose and followed you down the hall. You felt more tired with each step you took. Your head sagged. Your shoulders fell. You missed food. When had you last eaten? Everything went to Mutti and Opa, it seemed. (That was the way it should be, you reminded yourself firmly.) And now it would also go to this strange American man.

He touched your back and you straightened up, whirling around to face him. 

He smiled. „You're beautiful," he said.

„Please, stop," you said.

„I like your hair."

You felt the nape of your neck, where your Mutti had cut down to the skin in patches when she had used the kitchen shears, a few weeks ago. You felt your cheeks flush in shame. He was mocking you. „Don't."

He just kept smiling with his horrible face. You felt fear and anger expanding your insides with hot air. 

_„Don't,"_ you said tightly. 

„Is this my room?" he said, pointing to the door to his right.

„No. Follow me."

-

The man from America was at the kitchen table before you rose. This was impressive and disconcerting, since you rose at five. (The clock reported it to be seventeen o'clock, however.) „Hi," he said, smiling.

„Hi," you replied curtly. 

„Where are you going from?"

„Where am I going to?"

„Sorry. Yeah."

You slung a sack from the pantry over your shoulder. „I'm going to get food."

He gestured to the countertop, where the potatoes had obtained a soup-like consistency. „You all look good to me."

„Well, we're not."

„Can I come?"

„No. You are a guest. You can stay here. I will be back sometime later today. My mother will make you breakfast at nine."

„Oh," he said. „Okay."

His disappointment did not concern you. You were relieved to be rid of him, if only for a few hours. His eyes followed you as you ran from the kitchen.

His eyes followed you as you went out the front door.

His eyes followed you as you hiked your way to the fields. 

His eyes followed you as you swore as you plunged your hand through a potato when you tried to pick it up. 

His eyes followed you as you held your cramping stomach and gritted your teeth.

His eyes followed your every move. You _felt_ him. He was the hot sun beating down on your sweating back, the wind groaning through your thin shirt, the dirt passively challenging you to dig deeper. You couldn't do this. You gasped for air. Your stomach hurt. Your head swam. 

The earth seemed to open up and swallow you whole. 

-

„Back so soon?" the man from America said.

„It is fifteen o'clock," you replied, washing your hands in the sink and keeping your vision firmly dedicated to this task. 

„You must work very hard."

You glance at the barely filled sack on the floor beside you. 

„That's a long time spent harvesting potatoes."

„I never told you was doing that."

„I assumed," he said, „that was the food. There is only potatoes."

„I had to tend to the horses among other things."

„Ah," he said and the way he said it--like he was somehow enlightened by this information--made you clench your jaw.

„Dinner will be at nineteen o'clock."

„Ninety?"

„Nine **teen.** "

„Oh. Sorry."

You set the sack on the counter and began to gingerly wash the twelve potatoes you managed to procure that didn't disintegrate in your hands. The food was rotting. Why was the food rotting? 

„Do you farm others?"

„Yes," you said. 

„Why only potatoes, then?"

„Everything else is rotten." Up to and including the potatoes, you thought, with hysteria filling your shriveled stomach. 

„You're beautiful," he said.

„Stop," you said. Water ran over your hands. It was very cold. You hated this American man. 

„Can I touch you?"

„No."

„Your mother is nice."

„She's a good woman."

„Is your father here?"

„He killed himself."

„Oh," he said. „Oh." He didn't apologize. He didn't ask why. You knew the why, but you couldn't have told him. It wasn't something one talked about. Certainly not to Americans. Definitely not to Franchians. No one ever, but especially foreigners with strange accents and horrible faces. 

„Well," he said. „You're certainly…progressive here."

„Progressive?"

„Death is a right, here," he said. „Where I come from, death is fought. No, no. Sorry. My language is bad. No, death is earned."

„Earned?"

„Yes," he said.

You set down your fifth potato. You braced the countertop and you bowed your head, closing your eyes. You were tired. You were so, so _tired._

„No one can die, where I come from. We have rules."

Your lips curled. You were tired of him mocking you. „My father," you said, „killed himself because of a man from a faraway land."

„Really?" he said. He had to sound so _interested_ in your untellable story. Why? _Why?_

„He saw his face in his dreams, every night. This man. From Franchia."

„I know that place! I went there," he exclaimed. 

„He wanted it to stop, so he died."

„I see."

„He told me, ,Do not ever pick up a gun.' So I have never picked up a gun."

„A good moral."

„Why is this a joke to you?" you hissed, staring accusingly through the window. The mountains were tall. They were a constant. You loved the mountains. You loved your town.

„A joke?" he said, aghast. „Oh my, _no!_ No, it is no joke. I'm happy for your father and I am sorry that you are sad."

„I am not sad," you said. „I am angry with you. You are disrespecting me."

He touched your shoulder. You flinched violently. You had not heard him rising from his chair. „You're beautiful," he said.

„Don't touch me."

„I love you," he said.

„You don't even know my name!" you cried.

„I love your hair and your skin," he said as though this were perfectly normal.

Your skin was ashy and your hair was unbrushed and sporadically bald in patches. „Dinner will be ready at nineteen o'clock," you said lowly. „In the kitchen. I will see you then. Until that time, stay away from me."

The clock on the wall stated it was already twenty-two at night. You ignored it and your unfinished work and left.

-

Your Mutti crooned to the man from America about what a good boy you were, over dinner. There were potatoes and the last of a loaf of stale bread for the affair. Mutti had half a plate and Opa had a full plate and the man from America had a full plate. Your plate remained empty. You hadn't been hungry for three weeks, now. It was better that way. 

_„Such_ a good boy," your Mutti said. „Strong, smart, quiet. He's obedient."

„Mmhm," the man from America said.

„Are you wealthy?" your Mutti asked him.

„Me?" he said. „I don't know. I'm in university, right now."

„But you come from America."

„Yes," he said, giving a wide smile. No one was bothered by the man's face, save for you. And oh, were you ever bothered. „I'll be going back after I leave here."

Your Mutti fiddled with her fork. „I see."

You did not like the look in her eyes. „Opa," you said quietly. „More bread?"

„Only if it isn't that imported junk," he grunted.

„Of course." You slid a slice onto his plate. 

"Ijuwaasawaicuausgezeichnetfowha," the man from America said, smiling. He was looking at you. 

Your Mutti kicked you, from under the table. „Excuse me," you said. „Could you repeat that, please?"

„Oh!" he said and he shrugged. „I think you are very generous."

„Thank you."

„He is!" your Mutti said quickly. „He is very generous! Will _literally_ give you the shirt off his back!"

„Hm," he said. 

„I'm going to bed," you said.

„Why?" she asked, with that unlikeable look in her eyes.

„Because I am tired."

„But we are still eating."

You looked at the dangling string to the lightbulb above you absently.

„If he's tired, he should sleep," the man said.

„True," she said. „Go to bed. Sleep well."

„Thank you," you said, and excused yourself from the table. 

-

There was someone touching you, in the dark. With bleary eyes, you searched for a body to connect the hand too. You were too tired to be frightened. 

Then you realized it was the man from America with the horrible face and you yelped. 

„Shhh," he said. 

„Get out," you said. 

„You're beautiful," he said.

„Get out!" you shrieked, pulling up your threadbare blanket. 

„I could stare at you all day," he said. 

„Get out, get out!"

„Your mother told me where you sleep. In case I need help."

You tried to get your breathing under control. You failed. „Do you need help? Squeaky door? A cold draft? What?"

He shrugged. „I just wanted to see you."

„Then get out."

„You are the most beautiful person ever."

„You can see me in the morning," you said and you couldn't tell if you were shaking because of the cold or the hunger or the fear. „Go to sleep."

His eyes glowed in the dark. They were like twin candles. There was something malevolent about them, though you knew he meant to look nonthreatening. He was honest and horrible. „You mother said you like me."

You stared at him blankly.

He bit his lip. „Am I speaking wrong?"

„No," you said. „I understood you fine."

He gave a relieved smile. „I love you," he said. 

„I'm tired," you said. 

He nodded and he left. You did not sleep, however. You stared at your cracked ceiling and you chewed on the inside of your cheek in hunger. 

\--

You slaughtered one of your horses, the next day. You cried and cried the whole time. „I'm sorry!" you screamed. „I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

The meat began to fester shortly after you separated it from the bone. You swore and you screeched your frustration into the air and you wept. You beat your hands against the carcass until you were bloody and bruised. An errant stand of hair fell into your eye and you tore it out of your head. You felt light-headed and horrible and hopeless. 

„I'm sorry," you whimpered, patting the flank. „I'm sorry, but I had to. I _had_ to."

The man from America didn't say anything to you when you came back to the inn, having done a poor job of wiping the results of the kill from your skin and clothes. He only stared with his eyes. You were too tired to care. 

„A delicacy tonight," you said.

„Really?" he said.

„Yes," you said hollowly. „Mildly aged, farm-raised beef."

„I didn't know you had cows."

You grunted and made your way to your room.

-

The meat was infested with maggots by afternoon. You entertained the idea of picking them off and popping them in your mouth, like candy. You didn't do it. It was a nasty thought and you weren't hungry, anyways. 

„Good job," your Mutti said. 

You grunted. 

„Which one did you kill?"

„Mine."

She nodded. „I know, it will be harder to plow later in the season, but sacrifices must be made. We have a guest."

„I hate him."

„No, you do not," she admonished you. „He loves you."

„No, he doesn't," you said, scrunching your nose. „He's perverted."

„He's from America," she said.

„Really? I had no idea."

She swatted you with her ladle. It hurt. Your skin burned red on your hip. „Don't sass me."

„I'm sorry," you said. 

„How is the meat looking?"

„Like it's rotten."

She pushed past you. „Let me see!" She was quiet, for some time. „Kill another."

„What?" you said, aghast. „No!"

„This meat is bad. We can't have bad meat."

„I won't!"

She pressed in near you. Your Mutti was much shorter than you, but something in you withered when she threatened you. Thoughts of her hitting you made you quiver. Thoughts of smacking her back made you ill. „We have guests," she said.

„I… I can't do it, Mutti. I can't do it, you can't make me. We can't waste this, you know we can't, we just can't, I. Mutti, please," you babbled, a torrent of supplications spilling from your lips. 

She leaned away and this was worse. „Fine," she said. „I don't know what I was saying when I was talking about you, last night."

„Mutti, _please."_

„Whatever," she said. „Go get Opa and tell him that dinner will be ready in half an hour."

„Okay," you said softly and slipped out of the kitchen. 

You bumped into the man from America. He gave you a strange look. „Excuse me," you said. 

„Are you okay?" he asked.

A ball formed in your throat and you cringed. „Yes."

„You look ill. Your skin is gray."

„I thought you loved it," you spat. 

He shrugged. 

„Move. I have to see my grandfather."

He moved. You walked past him. You did not look back, even though you felt his eyes on you.

-

„Would you ever _consider_ running away with me?" he asked when he found you sitting on the porch, that night. You did not go to dinner. You couldn't. You would throw up all the air you'd been holding in your body if you had to sit through that. 

„Using big words, I see," you said.

„I use a dictionary."

„You use it well."

„Thank you."

You stared out at the mountains and the little lights of the town, off in the distance. It made your heart constrict because you loved your town. It was the only thing you were capable of loving. 

The shadows became longer, before your very eyes. You observed this passively. „Would you?" he asked.

„No," you said. 

Everything was much darker, now. He sat down beside you, dejected. „I love you," he said.

„That as may be," you said, "but I love my town."

„Do you love me?"

„I don't _know_ you."

He bit his lip, sighing. „Your mother says you do."

You spat into the grass. „My mother says many things."

_„Could_ you love me?"

„I don't know."

„I'd marry you."

„You can't do that," you said. 

„Well, I would. I love you."

„I can't leave home," you said.

„Whenever we're together is home."

„I'm Catholic," you said.

„I don't know what that is, but okay."

„I'm going to die young," you said. 

„Well, I'm going to die with a mirror," he said, shrugging. „So?"

„I'm tired," you said. 

He didn't say anything. The lights of the town blinked at you, through the increased darkness, through the longer shadows. You preferred them so much more to the man from America's horrid face. 

-

„The American is going back in one day," your Mutti said as she washed the dishes from a breakfast of breadcrumbs and soft, moldy potatoes. It was a Sunday. You liked Sundays. 

„Good riddance," your Opa said, from the sitting room. „I hate all this foreign blood."

„That's what tourists do," you said, as evenly as you could, to her. „They move on. They go back to not being tourists."

„And you are going, too."

_„What?"_

„This boy will go back to America," your Mutti hissed. „America. Away from here. He has a…preoccupation with you. He will take you."

„No," you said, fiercely shaking you head. „No. No, I can't!"

„You will starve with the rest of us if you stay!"

„I'd rather starve," you spat. „I'd rather starve than have that man's hands on me."

Your Mutti's hands wrapped around your biceps. „Look at yourself! Look at how I can feel your bones! I cannot allow a son of mine to die like this."

„The food went bad when he came," you said, lips trembling, body trembling. Your Mutti's grip was tight. It hurt. Your pulse echoed through the corridors of your veins. „The food will be good when he leaves."

„You are going."

„No!"

„Listen to yourself!" she snapped. „You are being a fool!"

„He has the most dreadful face, Mutti!" you whined. „And his manners! He cannot possibly care for me forever. He will lose interest in days."

„That is of no concern. What matters is that he will take you _out."_

„I don't want out!" you cried. „I like it here!"

„Here? _Here?"_

„It's my home," you said weakly. 

„Making homes is easy," she said. „I lived in Svitz until I was twenty. Then I met your father and I came here. This is the same thing."

„But Vati wasn't a _monster_ with a horrible face and horrible eyes!"

„How do you know?" 

You swallowed and bit your tongue. 

She ran a hand through her hair, glancing out the window. „You are leaving," she said. „This is final. Tell the boy whatever you have to, but leave with him."

„Mutti--"

„Don't make me get the broom."

You didn't.

-

„So. This is me," you said, waving your arm at the clear view of the post office and the crooked bus stop sign. 

„Uh huh," he said. 

„This is the end of our town. Almost the end of the country."

„How close is Franchia?"

„About twenty kilometers west."

„Have you ever gone?"

„No. I hate Franchians."

„Have you ever gone anywhere?"

„No," you said. 

„My home is nice," he said. „We call it Night Vale."

„Mmhm."

„You're beautiful."

„Thank you."

„You don't love me."

„No," you said. „I don't."

He hummed. „It can be learned."

„I'm sure."

The bus, in the distance. You saw it. It was coming for you both. You hated this. You hated how his fingers kept hesitantly brushing against your emaciated arm. „Ready?" he said.

„No," you said. 

It was so close, now. How did it move that fast? Time seemed disjointed. You couldn't do this. One of your hands crept over your stomach. You thought about your horse. You thought about your Vati. You thought about your town. 

„No," you said. 

Its doors swung open. The man from America hopped up the steps and he turned to look at you. „We could have a future together," he said. 

And you almost took those few steps forward. You almost took his hands in yours, frail and dry as your whole body felt, and squeezed them. But then he…he smiled and the shadows, the shadows, they _grew_ , they _pulsed_ , and something inside of you died. You gaped.

You flinched. You looked away.

When you looked back, the bus was gone and the man from America with it.

You looked down the road to your town. You looked at the mountains. You looked at the bus stop. 

„Oh," you said. 

Your legs shook. Your whole body shook. You were tired. You felt ill. You sat down on the bench. Just for a moment, you told yourself. One moment. 

Just to give you a moment to collect yourself. 

Then you'd go home. 

One moment, briefer than the flicker of a candle, you swore. 

Wearily, you closed your eyes for that single moment. 

Then you went home. 


End file.
